*sigh* Order of the Phoenix is out, and I haven't read it yet. *mournful look* I guess this is what I get for ordering the British version and then getting dragged away on a family vacation to the back end of no where (in a hotel, incidentally, that decided that our dial-up access number did not exist) until today. And then I find out that amazon.co.uk isn't planning on delivering it until Saturday. AARGH!! *goes into deranged ax murderer mode*

Then again, it did give me lots of time to write, which I'm sure you all approve of . . . :P

Soo . . . despite the fact that I have not yet read OoTP--a situation, I assure you, that I plan to rectify soon--I suppose now is time for the infamous author's note, detailing how I have, after long and angsty nights, decided to discontinue writing this story, as it has now been entirely invalidated by the real fifth book--although I might be persuaded to take it back up if I get enough reviews pleading at me to do so.

Hah. Double hah.

Let's look at this logically. My angsty nights were over starting the story, back in September or so--around the time there were rumours placing the release date of the fifth book as anywhere between the end of September and the Apocalypse. When I finally gave in and started writing, I did so knowing full well that the time was rapidly coming that the real fifth year would be revealed, and that, especially with the speed at which I write, there was no way I would have finished the story by then.

As witnessed by the fact that this story is fifteen chapters, a little less than three hundred fifty pages long, the outcome of those hours of angst was simple: I decided I didn't care. This was not meant to be a story reflecting in any way what I thought would actually happen in the fifth book; if it had been, I would have titled it Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, like the other fifty billion stories out there with that title. This was meant to be my candy story, here for no other reason than to give me an excuse to have fun and mangle what clichés I could.

I'll probably get a few fewer reviews now: most of my old friends, those of you who are well-acquainted with this story, will stay, but there will be fewer idle wanderers--those, I am sure, will flock instead to the flood of sixth-year stories that are/will be soon coming out. But since when have I ever been in this solely for the reviews? They're nice, and I admit they sometimes give me that extra edge to get a story written just that little bit faster . . . but guilt over approaching/passing my self-imposed deadline works just as well.

Soo . . . yeah. In conclusion, now that a certain family vacation is over, I ain't goin' nowhere. You have my full permission to expect the next chapter out within three weeks--or perhaps, just perhaps, even sooner. But don't count on it. I do have seven hundred (or so) page book to slog through once or twice first, you know. ;)

On a slightly more normal note, the disclaimers: Harry Potter, Severitus' Challenge, Monty Python, whatever random ancient badly translated video game that was, If you want to dance with me (or whatever that stupid song's name is), More Than a Woman (Yay Bee Gees!), and don't belong to me.

Oh, and if anyone wants to correct my 1337, please do. I am not a 1337 h4x0r, sadly, although I am friends with several--so, in consequence, I am far more adept at reading 1337 than writing it.

*deep breath out* Now that all that is over with, on with the show!
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~*~Basilisks and Other Slytherin Matters~*~
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Your mother sucks eggs.

Your father smells of elderberries.

411 j00r b453 r b310ng 2 u5.

Oh yeah? You and what army?

It's gotta be rock and roll music if you want to dance with me.

I'm lonely. Hold me.

More than a woman, more than a woman to me~

1337 h4x0r. ph33r |\/|3.

This was not working. His back hurt, his head hurt, his heart hurt, and the bottom of his robe was absolutely soaked in . . . he really did not want to know. Oh, yeah, let's build the entrance in a girl's bathroom, Luce'. He mocked. After all, who would ever think to look there?

That's just bloody fine, except for, I don't know, the fact that there's an ugly whiny crybaby ghost inhabiting said bathroom; one who seems to think flooding all the toilets is an appropriate response to all her problems!

He took a deep breath, wiping his face with his hand in an effort to calm himself. Okay. Just once more, and then I'll give up.

Another deep breath. Just like all the other times, he composed himself, reaching for the memory of the time Sal' had spent trying in vain to teach him, poised himself and hissed.

Sasquatch, won't you come on down? Shed your furry coat, and let the sun shine in. The door is OPEN, come on in~

It was a rather longer hiss than usual, and then, to his considerably surprise, the passageway opened itself near the middle of the . . . phrase, he supposed it had been.

Oh well. No one's perfect.

Butterflies fluttering in his stomach, he stood, and stepped forward.
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"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my bed?"

Jamie rubbed his head where he had hit the ground suddenly and glared upwards. For a single, highly disconcerting moment, he was under the impression that he was looking in a mirror. "I could ask the same--what are you doing in Draco's room?" He shot back.

Or . . . well, he meant to. When no sound came from his mouth, the events of the previous night--and, incidentally, an echo of the pain from his overly stretched bond with Draco and the full force of the ache in his side--came rushing back. He winced.

The boy who looked eerily like him leaned forward. "Can. You. Hear. Me."

Jamie glared. Yes. I. Can. But being silently snide would not help his situation. He pointed at his throat.

"Oh, you're mute?" The boy asked. "I'm. So. Very. Sorry." He said in a slightly louder voice.

Even if I were really mute, I would not also be deaf. Jamie could feel his irritation growing. He twitched his wand off the gauntlet and into his hand, then pointed that at his throat.

The other tilted his head sideways a little bit. "You want me to kill you?"

Jamie smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. Could this idiot possibly be any dimmer? He shook his head vigorously and, feeling a bit silly, stood up and got into one of the most generally recognizable dueling positions. He then--before the fool decided that that meant that he wanted to duel--waved his wand, exaggeratedly slowly, mimicking the movements Voldemort had used to cast the silencing spell, pointed to his throat one last time, and crossed his arms belligerently, practically daring the other boy to misinterpret this time.

"Well, why didn't you say so the first time?" The stranger asked, a bit of irritation beginning to creep into his demeanor. Without looking, he reached behind him to the bedside table for his wand and lazily pointed it in Jamie's direction. "Finite Incantatum."

"Thank you." And indeed, Harry was absurdly pleased to hear his own voice again. I better watch out for myself . . . or risk turning into Lockhart. He quipped to himself, before turning back to the matter at hand. He scowled at the person still sitting on the bed. "Now that I can speak, would you mind telling me just what, exactly, you are doing in Luce's room? I'm surprised he hasn't come back and kicked you out himself yet."

"I would not mind," the stranger replied evenly, "except for the fact that I have no idea who 'Luce' is, and certainly no clue as to why he would suddenly possess the room that I have inhabited for several months now." His eyes narrowed. "Now it is my turn. Who are you and what are you doing in my room?" He paused. "Or even, for that matter, in the room of this 'Luce' person you spoke of."

He eyed Jamie warily. "You're not . . . lovers . . . are you?" The tactile memory whispered across his skin, briefly, of waking up to find another body snuggled against his; a foreign hand entangled in his hair. Doubly foreign, for he could not remember the last time someone had been that close to him. Perhaps, when he had been a small child, he had slept so close to other orphans, in an effort to conserve warmth, but not within recent memory--even before coming here to Hogwarts, he had early on become the . . . uncanny . . . one; the one few wanted to have anything to do with, even before he had built these icy barriers around his soul.

In a rare moment of carelessness, Jamie did not stop to think of possible reasons that this room might legitimately be home to another, nor consider the consequences of that possibility. "I'm Harry Potter." Then, registering the last remark, he sighed, petitioning the ceiling. "Why is it that even someone who only knows our names thinks that the two of us are involved? He's my friend. He just offered his room as a safe haven to me because he knows how . . . stifled . . . I sometimes feel in Gryffindor Tower."

"Oh. Good." The stranger relaxed--at least as much as it seemed he ever did, for there was a sort of of unconscious wary alertness that clung to him even then. "Wait. You're a Gryffindor? And a Potter? And you're friends with a Slytherin prefect?!"

A sheepish grin pulled at Jamie's lips. "It's . . . a long story." He tilted his head. "You know my name, but I still don't know yours."

The other boy tossed sleep-touseled black hair away from green eyes at least as vivid as Jamie's own with a laugh and a mock-abashed look on his face. "Oh, right. Excuse my manners--or lack thereof." He held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle."
**
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She landed on her back with a thud hard enough to bring a hint of stars to her eyes. There was a safe enough feel to the place, and she trusted her feelings enough, that she waited until the majority of the stars had receded before attempting to sit up. The sight that met her eyes, however, made her briefly wish that she had remained lying down.

It was a large, sprawling building; hundreds of lights glinted at her merrily through as many windows. A building that she knew better even than Hogwarts, for she had grown up with its idiosyncrasies. Looks like Father is entertaining tonight, came the idle thought, grimly--for she had heard rumours of what her father's preferred style of entertainment was.

The anger appeared--How dare he? She did not expect that her disappearance (probably described as 'death' to the public and his Lord) would be any source of restraint, but she had thought that the death of his only son and heir might deter him from such . . . fervor.

Then the common sense that she admitted she was sometimes in short supply of abruptly reared its head, beating back the torrent of anger and bitterness that had overcome her upon sight of her old home. How did she know that this was her world? The portal could have done anything, after all, from transporting her home to stranding her in yet another place that was too similar, yet far too bewilderingly different.

There was only one way to find out, really. Briefly, she wished for her Invisibility Cloak, or even Jamie's . . . but, as she had pointed out to him, it seemed such a long time ago, Gryffindor or not, she could sneak when she had to. And the process was simplified by the fact that she knew all--or at least most--of the secret entrances to Malfoy Manor.

She drifted closer to the manor, conscious of a certain lingering stiffness from her fall and a dull throb a little below her left shoulder-blade, where the object that had originally knocked her off-balance and towards the portal had hit. As she got closer, she aimed herself towards the vaulted windows that looked down into the ballroom--they would give her a hint as to where and when she had ended up. If she saw Draco . . .

But she did not. She did see her father, and the cut of the robes worn by the guests was fairly modern, so it seemed likely that she was at least in the same time period. Yet . . . this seemed like a very ordinary ball, the sort that her parents had given every now and again for as long as she could remember--the sort that, once she was old enough to behave, she had always been brought along to. This was not one of those hidden revels that had gone on behind locked doors, the events that sometimes, the only reason she realized they were happening was when her father was away--not only from her, but from Draco--for a significant length of time, yet not on a trip . . . and sometimes, just occasionally, when he returned he still smelled faintly of blood.

Sighing lightly, she settled herself into a sitting position, back leaning against the wall, for a slightly longer wait. Tapping the stone, she whispered an eavesdropping spell that her brother had taught her . . . it seemed a lifetime ago.

"I'm sure you're quite sick of hearing this by now, sir, but I must offer my condolences as to the loss of your former heir."

"Quite." That was her father's voice, at its most frostily displeased. She had been subject to that tone more than most, but it never quite lost its hold over her.

Nor, it seemed, over the other man unfortunate enough to be speaking to him. Yet he was either braver or more insensitive than most, for that tone only shook him, instead of putting him off entirely. "And . . . er . . . congratulations, of course. On your new heir."

A new heir?! In her shock, Lucia almost lost control of the spell. Mother told me that something had gone wrong with Oniisan's birth . . . that she couldn't have another child . . .

"I congratulate you on your bold move." A new voice, dryly. "Only you, Lucius, could get away with foisting your illegitimate offspring off on society as your legitimate heir--especially so shortly after both others . . . mm . . . disappeared, shall we say?"

"Ah, but young Angelus is entirely legitimate." The ice had mostly disappeared from her father's voice, replaced by something approaching humor; he also sounded exceedingly smug. "I married his mother before she gave birth to him, after all."

All three laughed. Sick to her stomach, Lucia cut the eavesdropping spell. This was her father, her world. She knew it, deep in her bones, yet the thought brought her none of the elation she had been expecting. Perhaps, once she got back to Hogwarts, she would feel differently. Before that, though, she had a few . . . things to gather, for this time, she would not be coming back.
**
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She turned around, panning the room one last time. Was there anything else that she would regret leaving? She had her trunk, her broom, her Invisibility Cloak . . . the glass dragon figurine that Draco had given to her as a thirteenth birthday present . . .

She winced, waiting for the familiar rush of pain that thoughts of her brother always brought; it was there, as it had been earlier that night, a pale shadow of the usual flood and easy enough to ignored; overlaid was Parvati--sad eyes/fingers touching her hair gently/soothing/"I know"--and Ron--comforting arms/not Weasley/never Weasley/too foolish to have it seen before/"I'm here, Harry".

Now the tears she swallowed were for an entirely different reason. I never knew . . . never saw . . . I was never truly there, too busy yearning for this. This pitiful, broken life of mine that is lived on borrowed time.

What was there left for her here?

Only one thing more.
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The walk was a long one, down to where the wards of the manor finally ended, to where it was safe to call the Knight Bus. They gawked, until she explained that it was a costume for a party a friend was holding--for she was once again the dark elf named Shadow. After that, they accepted her "Hogsmeade, please." and the fare that she dug out of the coin that she had kept in her room and she accepted her cup of hot chocolate--for she hadn't had the heart to refuse, and the warmth was a pleasure, even if she had never particularly liked the taste of chocolate.

The walk up from Hogsmeade was even longer, especially as the night wore on and she dearly wished for nothing other than a warm, soft bed. At one point she stumbled, twisting her ankle just enough to make it throb unpleasantly. A bitter wind blew, and she wished she had taken the hidden passage--but the Shrieking Shack was still as boarded up from the outside as ever, and Honeydukes' had closed long before she arrived.

Matters improved once she was actually inside Hogwarts; not only was there no wind, but she felt more energized and her ankle didn't ache nearly as much; the pain in her shoulder had entirely disappeared. It was almost as if the castle itself were helping her, welcoming her home. Just in case, as she reached her godfather's door, she touched the wall beside it, whispering, "Thank you."

Then touched her hand to the well-hidden identification pad, after returning to her original state. She didn't think her glamour had been strong enough or detailed enough to change her fingerprints, but it didn't hurt to be sure. The door slid open.

He was fast asleep, head pillowed on arms and a couple of student essay scrolls that he'd probably claim had always been flattened that way, then proceed to take points off for carelessness. It was something he did sometimes, falling asleep at his desk like that, though not often. Only when he simply could not sleep, for one reason or another, and had in consequence come out to his desk to get 'just a little bit more' work done.

There was something new on his desk, though. She glided closer, picking the small, unassuming box up with her right hand. An equally plain tag had been attached, "For Harry" scrawled in his spidery handwriting. She set all she had brought with her down, picking it up as, unnoticed, tears stung her eyes. Even when he must believe I'm dead, he still remembered my birthday . . .

Movements slowed and given a dreamlike quality by her tiredness, she unwrapped the box and drew out of it a strand of gold--a necklace, with a beautifully wrought phoenix charm dangling from the end. On the back, what she recognized as the Snape family seal; as she held the charm in her hands, it tingled. Protection spells . . . and powerful ones, too, if I can actually sense them. Her heart went out to the sleeping man; not only had he had to suffer through their deaths, but the knowledge that, if he hadn't waited to give these to them for their sixteenth birthdays, they might have still escaped.

'These' because she was certain that somewhere, he had something similar that he would have given Oniisan for his sixteenth birthday. She slipped it over her head, intentionally sitting very still as the tingling spread all over her body before slowly fading away. Protection spells for certain.

An earsplitting wail shattered the silence; she reached down and picked the top bundle up off her pile of stuff. "Ssh . . . ssh, Angelus. It's okay." She soothed, rocking the tiny blond child. "You'll see." I will not let what happened to Oniisan happen to you . . . nor what very nearly happened to Jamie's Draco.

Movement out of the corner of her eye; still rocking her adoptive half-brother, she turned forward to watch her godfather in all but name stir briefly, then open his eyes.

As he lifted his head from his hands, his eyes focused on her. "Ah." He looked around. "Curious. Usually when I dream of you, it does not seem nearly so clear or . . . realistic. Tell me, is Draco around too? Or will you be the only one to berate me tonight?"

"Why should I do that, when you seem to be doing entirely too good a job of feeling guilty yourself?" She answered with a flash of humour.

He peered closer, turning on his lamp with an absent flick of his wand. "So. Not that sort of dream, then, but a fantasy. You look very different, you know. Like I had always thought you would have, had you been my daughter."

She bit her lip. Do I really want to know? "Are you so sure I'm not?"

He waved his hand. "Oh, well, here in this dream you are, obviously. But in the real world? No . . . probably just as well, considering how guilty I already feel about your death when you're just the sister of my godson. If you were actually my daughter . . ."

". . . it is my considered opinion that you look at least as much like a Snape as I do, so you're probably your Snape's daughter . . ." Jamie's voice echoed through her memory. His Snape had not known of their relation; that much was obvious in his reaction. So the fact that her Snape believed that he could not be her father meant, as Jamie had said, as much or as little as she wanted it to.

"And what is this?" He asked quizzically, looking at the bundle in her lap. "Please tell me it is not yours." He laughed. "Even in this dream, I am ill-equipped to be a father, much less a grandfather."

Lucia snorted. "And I'm sure you'd like even less to think about who his father would have to be, with this blond hair." Obviously that hadn't occurred to him before, as now he turned a rather delicate shade of green. "No, Severus, this is . . . my adoptive half-brother, I believe; Angelus Malfoy."

She laid him gently on Snape's desk. "He is . . . a second chance for you to have a child you can care for. Or I will take him to Hogsmeade Orphanage and leave him there; I will not allow him to suffer the same fate as Draco did and I only narrowly escaped, or risk being brainwashed into a good little Death Eater, as Draco could have become, had he been an only child."

"Why me?" He asked, an odd combination of fear and awe chasing each other around his eyes.

"Because . . . you were always there for us. I trust you to raise Angelus as himself . . . and because I think you ought to have a second chance. If I was going to stay here . . ."

He stood abruptly. "You're not leaving? But I haven't woken up yet."

"Didn't you realize? You've been awake this entire time." She almost laughed at the look on his face. "And I must leave; though I only recently figured this out myself. You see, the entire time I was gone, I wished only to return here, to return home. It became a shining ideal in my mind, and I hated anyone who tried to convince me otherwise."

"But now that I'm here . . . only now do I realize how much that place became home to me. How much the people there mean to me." Parvati . . . Ron . . . and yes, even Jamie, no matter how angry I get at him when he's actually around.

"I won't hold you back." Still, he seemed suddenly far older and more tired. "If you would tell me one thing, though . . . is Lily all right?"

She blinked. "Lily's dead in the other reality, too. The main difference that I can see between here and there is that that Harry is a boy, got left with his Muggle relatives, instead of being adopted by the Malfoys, and is tiresomely famous because everyone knows he's alive instead of thinking he had died." She paused. "Oh, and the fact that, despite also having been sorted into Gryffindor, he has an amazing knack for acting like a manipulative Slytherin asshole."

Despite himself, Snape had to hide a smile. "You say that like it's a bad thing." As quickly as that, the smile disappeared. "Another reality? There's actually more than one?" And, as if the question was pulled forcefully from him, "Is the other Harry . . ."

"Your son? As a matter of fact, yes--though both you and he only found out a couple weeks ago." She looked at her hands. "It is Jamie--the other Harry's--opinion that I am also your daughter."

"Don't joke." He snapped, sounding for once like his old self--or the other Snape. "This conversation is opening up enough old wounds as it is. Why didn't you tell me you were still alive? You are, aren't you?"

Now this was different. For once, Lucia actually felt almost like she had the upper hand in a conversation with a Slytherin. Or with Jamie--it was becoming increasingly obvious that Parvati had been right when she noted that Jamie was no longer Gryffindor, really, in anything but name. How had she not seen it? Had she really been so very blind, or had she just not wanted to see?

With an inward shake of her head at how off-track she had gotten, she pulled herself back on. "It's not a joke. You ought to know me better than that." She snapped back, allowing him to see that his intimation that she would joke about something so important to him--to both of them--had hurt. "As for telling you--I was kind of stuck in an alternate reality with no way to get back and no idea how. The fact that I'm back at all is nothing more than sheer accident."

She rolled her eyes, bringing her hand up in front of his face. "And yes, I am alive. Does this look like a ghost to you?" She shrugged. "Father managed to hit me with the Cruciatus . . . but Jamie appeared and rescued me before he could deliver the killing blow."

Snape snorted. "Torture . . . letting the 'game' stretch out beyond what is necessary or even wise . . . how like Lucius." He looked down at the tiny blond bundle still lying on his desk, then back up, expression suddenly oddly uncertain. "You will come back and visit, right?"

"If I can." There was so much more she wanted to say--to try to convince him that she was his daughter, as she was suddenly of sure herself; to tell him exactly how much he meant to her, whether or not he was her biological father . . .

Because it was true. Her father had been there for Draco, but never really for her. When she was lucky (or extremely unlucky), she might receive a glancing look, a casual word or two, but it had always been Severus who had been most like a father to her.

And that was part of the reason she wasn't going to try to convince him to go to the Library and find out the truth once and for all. The other reason was a bit simpler: she knew that disappearing again was going to hurt him; knowing it was his flesh-and-blood daughter--a daughter he already felt he had failed more than once--could only hurt him more.

Yet this reason, once she figured it out, turned out to be almost as simple. She had finally realized that, no matter who had sired her, Severus would always be a father to her. Deep down, it just didn't matter.

But how could she express all this? Unlike her godfather, her brother, or that strange double of herself, she was no silver-tongued Slytherin; she knew that if she tried to tell her godfather what she was thinking, she would just get all tongue-tied and mix him--and likely herself as well--up. So she simply moved around the desk and hugged him. "Goodbye."

Straightening, she looked down at her half-brother. "So? Do I take Angelus by Hogsmeade Orphanage on my way to figuring out exactly how to return to that other reality?"

Severus blinked, deliberately trying to look innocent. It was a mannerism that did not fit him too well--Draco, yes; the Headmaster, of course, but Severus? "Angelus? I have no idea what you're talking about, Harry."

He gestured down at the peacefully sleeping bundle. "By the way, have you met my son? He's about a month and a half old, born September 16th" Angelus' birthday, as near as she could tell, had probably been much earlier in September--he couldn't have been born before she disappeared, for her mother had still been alive and married to her father at that point.

"I thought I'd call him . . ." A pause, as he frowned in thought. "What did you say 'dragon' was in Japanese?"

Lucia blinked. "Ryuu."

"Ryuu." He repeated, rolling the word around on his tongue. "Ryuu Snape. My father would be spinning in his grave--as would Lucius, if we were all so fortunate as to have him be dead." A smirk. "I like it."

A cough. "As I was saying. Harry, I'd like you to meet my son, Ryuu Zaccaria Snape."
**
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He knocked a third time. "Draco? Please answer . . ." Still nothing. Snape turned to Dumbledore. "I don't think he's here, Albus. He would have answered by now, had he been."

The headmaster frowned. "I assume you have some other way of keeping track of your students." It was not phrased as a question; Dumbledore knew his Potion Master entirely too well for there to be any doubt.

Snape's face was utterly blank; he did not want Dumbledore to know just exactly how stupid that comment had made him feel. Of course. He pulled out the scroll that he carried everywhere with him, tapping it and saying the password on autopilot.

Belatedly, he wondered if it was a good idea--he was sure Albus knew Harry had bonded Draco, but did not know if the Headmaster also knew the reason yet. Yet there was no Potter, or even a Snape, on the list--which, he realized (wondering if he would be thinking two steps behind even himself for too much longer . . . perpetually feeling stupid was not a sensation he enjoyed), only made sense, considering that Harry was not wearing the Slytherin badge on which the tracking spell was set, nor had he been Slytherin long enough for the spell to . . . leak . . . onto his skin.

Then again, he thought wistfully, it would be almost worth proving to the Headmaster just exactly how much his precious 'Golden Boy' had been subverted, for a chance to find out for sure that his son was all right.

Ah, but there was the object of his current search.

"Draco Malfoy -- First floor girls' restroom." He read incredulously.

Dumbledore suddenly shifted into what Snape fondly referred to as 'barmy old coot' mode. With a happy smile and the ever-present twinkle in his eye greatly strengthened, he clapped his hands twice. "Well, that narrows down the field immensely. Shall we go?"

Three steps later, Snape held up a hand, glad that he had not gone ahead and blanked the sheet, as was his wont. "Wait. It's changing."

Dumbledore politely slowed to a stop, his silence a more effective question than any number of words.

For a few moments--maybe half a minute, probably less--the area beside the name "Draco Malfoy" remained blank--odd, that, as if he had left the restroom (ignoring, for the moment, just exactly what he had been doing in there in the first place . . .), the list should have shown him to be in the "First floor corridor."

Then, under his amazed eyes (and Dumbledore's, as the old coot watched over his shoulder), into that blank space faded the words "The Chamber of Secrets"
**
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"Master Lucifer, you have returned!"

After having been treated to a flooded bathroom--a girls' bathroom, at that . . . good thing no one else had seen, or he would never have lived it down. He could almost see the insults now: 'greasy old perverted git'--a huge hole where a sink should have been, and a long fall onto a pile of dead rat skeletons, Snape was almost as eager to find Draco as Dumbledore; though admittedly his intentions ran more along the lines of strangulation than interrogation.

Perhaps he'd be lenient and forgive the rat skeletons, as at least they prompted some rather pleasing mental images.

Still, even wet, dirty, and thoroughly disgusted, he was still Slytherin to the bone; upon hearing a voice speaking words that had the possibility of bearing interesting fruit, it was second nature for him to slow down, stop, and hide himself a bit further out of the main range of view in order to eavesdrop.

Distantly, he found it amusing that the Headmaster--thoroughly Gryffindor as he claimed to be--reacted exactly the same way. No wonder people thought he knew everything.

"Indeed I have. It's been far too long, Xia, and I'm sorry for that." Though the first voice was unfamiliar to Snape--and, presumably, to the Headmaster as well--the second was well known; especially belonging as it did to the precise person they were searching for.

"It's okay. I was . . . afraid, Master Lucifer, so very afraid that I'd never see either of you again." The voice was female, alto, but with an oddly husky quality he had never heard before.

"It's Draco, now. Draco Malfoy. And Sal' is known as Harry Potter. Oh, and . . . would you listen to me if I asked you to can the 'Master'?"

Hissed laughter. "I don't know which is more amusing, the thought of a Malfoy and a Potter getting along, or the thought of Master . . . Harry? . . . as being Potter to begin with." Short pause. In a teasing tone, "and no. You ought to know that by now."

"I should, shouldn't I? Oh, it is so very good to see you again, Xia, especially now that Harry has gone off and done some damnfool Gryffindorish stunt and disappeared."

A very loud scraping noise. "The Master has disappeared? Then . . . I assumed he had finally come up with a decent translation spell . . ."

"No, I'm not speaking your language." Draco's voice, for some reason inexpressibly sad. "You are speaking mine."

"I'm . . . dead?" Puzzled. "How? Oh . . . perhaps now I remember. There was that boy . . ."

A rattling sound. "That boy . . . he reminded me so of the Master . . . and I missed him so much . . . but he wasn't. He couldn't have been. He . . . he told me to kill someone not an enemy. And I did! The Master will never forgive me!" The female voice approached hysteria, although Snape only noted that offhandedly, his mind too wrapped up in the possible import of the words themselves.

Soothingly, "Oh, Xia, I wish things had turned out otherwise. That you hadn't had to suffer like this. Yes, you did a bad thing, but I can understand why, and I forgive you. If Harry were here, I know he'd forgive you too." There was a brief moment of silence. "Wait. When the Chamber was opened in second year, I know no one was killed . . ."

The rattling sound, having stopped at some point after the female voice finished her confession, began again. "That . . . yes, now I remember that too. He returned, the boy who reminded me so . . . and he let me back outside this chamber at last. It was the sort of thing the Master did sometimes, remember? But . . . this time there were people around . . . but I didn't kill any of them? Truly?"

"I'm positive. Through a series of lucky incidents, no one was anything worse that petrified."

"I'm so glad . . . none of them were enemies either. But then there came the one he said was an enemy, and I believed him. He had a phoenix with him, and Gryffindor's sword, and I remembered that near the end . . ."

"He was so tiny, too, that little Gryffindor boy. He killed me, I remember now, but I killed him too--I made sure to drive one of my fangs into his arm; nothing can survive my venom for long." She sounded proud.

"Actually, you didn't. I suppose the phoenix healed him in time, because by the time he emerged from here, according to my father, he was a bit bloody, but whole--there were no visible wounds on his body." A laugh. "Oh, don't look so sad. Things would have been a great deal worse off if you had killed him, you know. The Gryffindors needed their little Golden Boy; more importantly, that was Harry."

"I almost killed the Master?! But . . . why didn't he say anything? Was he that angry with me, that he doomed me to death without even speaking to me one last time?"

"He didn't remember, Xia. Neither of us did, until recently. He was just a little twelve-year-old boy-child, trained to act far too Gryffindor for his own good, who was confronted with the so-called 'monster' that was about to kill the little sister of his best friend."

"He can still speak, can't he?"

"Yes, and I still can't . . . though evidently I've gotten better at faking it; it only took me nine tries and kneeling in entirely too much toilet water for entirely too long a period of time before I managed to get the stupid door open."

"Why didn't you take the back way, the way you used to?"

A very long pause. "Erm . . . I forgot?"

Snape padded a few steps forward, peeking around the corner into the room itself. As he had suspected, but not really believed, Draco stood near the middle of the room, speaking to what looked like the reanimated skeleton of a gigantic snake. The basilisk; it could hardly have been anything else. If he looked closely, he could see the barest shadow of poisonous green skin stretched, ghostlike, a few inches above the bones; the empty eye sockets contained the hint of what had once been (literally) deadly yellow eyes; one excessively long fang, whole, gleamed even in the relatively low ambient light, while the other was at least half-missing, broken off by something . . . or someone.

Dumbledore stepped forward as well, but alas, his sneaking skills were not quite up to Slytherin standards. Either that or he was quite distracted by something. Or perhaps he had meant to be heard--it was sometimes rather hard to tell, with Albus Dumbledore.

Whatever the reason, though, the basilisk's head snapped up, and two ghostly eyes pinned them. "Intruders!" It--she?--hissed.

Oh crap. What works against the undead again? Necromancy had been thought a completely (to pardon the pun) dead art for so long that few Defense Against the Dark Arts (or, for that matter, Dark Arts) classes even bothered to mention the undead.

"Inferno!"

Oh, right. Fire. Snape came to the decision that getting out of bed that morning had been an extremely bad one--decision, that is. He no longer felt like he was thinking two steps behind everyone else; three or four at least described the situation much better.

Then again, it seemed that he at least managed to figure out that burning the undead basilisk had been a bad idea before Dumbledore did. Perhaps it was because he knew Draco so much better. The bones of the basilisk flared briefly blue-hot, collapsing into ash, and Draco . . . exploded.

That was really the only good word for it.

"Xiiiiaaaaaa!" He screamed, as his eyes lit up the same shade as, and even brighter than, the fire that had consumed the basilisk's bones only moments before. It was both (presumably) a name, and a summon; he rose a little over a foot into the air as an invisible wind began swirling the ashes up and around him.

The ashes swirled ever faster, until Snape could barely discern Draco's body through the cloud of grey that engulfed him. Without the blue-white light that had spread from his eyes to, slightly dimmer, his entire body, it would have been impossible to see even that much. Then, slowly, the ashes began to form into bands, approaching the point where they would resume the shape they had once held.

What have we released?
**
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"Soo . . . what year is it?"

"19--42." Jamie glared halfheartedly at the other Slytherin. "Nice try."

A smug smirk. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Harry."

This, Jamie supposed, was evidence of just how much he had changed since second year. This Tom Riddle, a fellow fifth-year, was separated by only about eight months from the memory that had taken Ginny Weasley over and forced her to open the Chamber of Secrets; Harry held no illusions that Tom would suddenly change that drastically in the intervening time, he knew that the chances were good to certain that this Tom was Voldemort as well, already.

Yet despite that, he was now a boy the same age--not the impassable gulf that the three years had seemed to the twelve-year-old Jamie had once been--and a fellow Slytherin. There was a . . . familiarity to Tom Riddle that made Jamie feel safe in some obscure way, though he knew better than to trust those feelings.

Still, he had to admit that feeling such a sense of camaraderie with the person who would become his worst enemy (and his 'heir' . . .) was somewhat discomfiting. At least he was old enough (and, he supposed, 'wise' enough . . . for whatever that was worth) now not to be tricked into fearing becoming the next 'Dark Lord'. He hadn't been terribly interested in world domination even as Salazar--though he had to admit that the idea had occurred to him once or twice--and that inclination had developed into a complete distaste as Jamie.

Face it. When even the thought of being Minister of Magic for Britain alone made him feel slightly queasy . . . no, he had quite enough responsibility, thank you, even when it was just the country's expectations; the thought of actually being responsible for the people themselves . . .

Besides, if Fudge was any example, Jamie was firmly convinced that being the Minister of Magic had an extremely deleterious effect on one's brain and common sense. To the point where he occasionally wondered if Fudge even had one. Either one.

"What's so amusing?" Tom asked.

Oh. He must have been smirking visibly, then. Needed to work on that. "Nothing." And gasped, as the bond-headache, previously having subsided to a level where he could easily ignore it, flared to a full-blown migraine. Along with the headache, the thin white scar that ran along his vein on his right arm flared violently to blue-white light, a similar, slightly shorter line on his left echoing more dimly--for that had been where Salazar and Lucifer had first bonded each other.

Tom was staring; it occurred to him that there could hardly be a worse person to witness whatever was happening.

Then that thought and all others seeped away as he saw Draco, surrounded by the same light that currently flared from his bond-scars, knew where he was, and started to run.

Later, he'd take the time to be amazed at the speed he ran, at the blue-white barrier he threw up--wandlessly, even!--to block Tom Riddle out of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom (which, actually, wasn't yet. He wondered, distantly, if Myrtle was hiding out in one of the stalls right now? But dismissed it, as that thought too flowed away); and take the time to regret the fact that the barrier did not block sound or (for the most part) sight . . . he would never quite figure out if Voldemort had known how to enter the Chamber of Secrets before he so thoughtlessly opened it.

Slide and tumble gracelessly onto the pile of rat skeletons--it had been Lucifer's idea of a joke, if he remembered correctly; the blond had claimed that they suited the ambiance of the outer Chamber far better than any more conventional device to soften the fall. Take a moment to appreciate the fact that the rockfall caused by Lockhart was not yet there to block his way, and skid into the outer Chamber itself.

Through time and space, as soon as he stepped into the Chamber, the headache disappeared and he felt, briefly, once again whole; a ghostly image of Draco appeared that he could see with his physical eyes as well as mental. The blue-white that was the color of Draco's personal power--or that had been Lucifer's, and it seemed that this, at least, was exactly the same between the two--crackled in an angry aura around the blond, pulling the ashes together in a far more advanced Necromantic spell than he should ever be attempting in so uncontrolled a fashion as it seemed he was.

The ashes . . . where had they come from in the first place?
**
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Under Severus and Dumbledore's watchful eyes, with a final flash of power that forced both to look away, if only briefly, the basilisk once more snapped visibly into existence.

"Lucifer, you fool! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Only a few steps in front of the two watchers, Harry faded in--yet not entirely; much like a more colorful version of a ghost, they could see through him to the opposite wall.

The glowing being--no longer even recognizably Draco--turned its head in their direction. "They killed her, Sal'."

"No. I killed her. Ah, Xia . . . can you ever forgive me?"

"It is I who cannot forgiven!" Only just barely this side of a shriek, the basilisk replied, writhing in the air. "I killed, Master!" This time, there was no lengthy explanation, as if she expected all that had been said before to be tacitly understood.

And perhaps it was. "That, too, may be partially my fault." The ghostly Harry replied thoughtfully. "But either way . . . either way, of course I forgive you, Xia." One hand reached out, as if to touch the ashy apparition. "Voldemort has fooled far less trusting individuals than you, little one."

"Thank you, Master. I am sorry you had to kill me . . . but I would not have had it be anyone else." Sweetly, all the hysteria and despair dissipated by a simple gesture of forgiveness. "Love you."

"Always have. Always will." His son's voice sounded choked as he took another step forward and the basilisk lowered its--No. Her ashy head to gently taste his outstretched hand with her long tongue.

As if it had been some sort of signal, Harry faded away once more and the basilisk, somehow making the movement graceful, fell to the floor, loosing shape as she fell, until what hit the ground was mere ash.

And Draco, no longer glowing and now a more or less uniform grey, with pale streaks down his face where, perhaps, tears had fallen, collapsed to his knees, hands reaching blindly to either side to grasp what ashes he could. "Why?"

Dumbledore's posture reminded Snape of the way he had looked the previous June--only four months earlier . . . it seemed far longer than that . . .--as they confronted the false Moody. "Release him now, Salazar Slytherin." His wand pointed unerringly at Draco's heart.

Snape blinked. Dumbledore couldn't honestly think . . .

"What the hell are you talking about, you demented old coot?" Draco demanded, at his rudest--which, unless there was a handy victim around and he was in the mood for a little psychological torture, was a sure sign that he was tired. "Severus? Do you know what he's talking about?"

"That's Professor S--" Dumbledore began angrily.

"Leave it, Albus. He is my godson, too, as you well know." What was Albus' problem? Even in anger--which, in the truest tradition of Gryffindors, tended to send him off the deep end; a hundred-odd years (and, Snape suspected, a bit too much power for any bystanders' good had just taught him to keep better reins on the temper and allowed him to develop a nearly divine store of patience--Albus never, as far as he knew, acted quite this . . . erratically.

"Draco, I think he believes that you have been possessed by the spirit of Salazar Slytherin."

The blond's eyebrows drew down as he tilted his head. "Why on earth would he think that?"

A snort. "Where should I begin? There's the fact that you know where the Chamber of Secrets is, the fact that you were able to open it--which means that you can speak Parseltongue--that little light show you were putting on just now, the Necromancy . . . or what I assume is Necromancy, at least . . ."

"First: I'm not Parseltongue. I just got lucky. Second: the 'light show', as you so quaintly put it, might be a decent reason, except for the fact that his aura is emerald green--matches his eyes--not blue-white. Third: what in the world does Necromancy have to do with Salazar Slytherin?"

"It is an extremely Dark Art, forbidden and thankfully lost. There are many books that recall tales of Slytherin leading armies of the undead." Dumbledore broke in, his wand still not wavering. Snape was beginning to get ever so slightly nervous. Necromancer, possessed (though he still thought that theory was a load of crock), or whatever, Draco was his godson, one of his Slytherins and soulbonded to his son; three good reasons when he only really needed one to do all he could (within reasonable limits) to protect the blond boy.

Yet he also owed Dumbledore quite a bit . . . it was a life-debt, if only a symbolic instead of true and binding one. Both for that reason, and simply because Dumbledore, even at his age, was probably at least twice as powerful as him, trying to face the aging headmaster was not, needless to say, an appealing thought.

"Stories, according to you, say he led undead armies. That doesn't necessarily mean he raised them. Sal'--azar Slytherin was no more a Necromancer than . . . than Severus!" A searching look that turned contemplative--an entirely new reason for Snape to feel uncomfortable--but (Snape suspected, thankfully) Draco said no more on that subject, instead attempting to lever himself to his feet.

Dumbledore snapped even tenser, if that was possible; Snape's attention was divided between worry at how wobbly and pale, even through the concealing ashes, Draco looked, and trying to figure out what it was that had triggered his curiosity about that last statement. Other than the look--that was something he'd get explained by the source. Later.

Pieces came together.

His way of speaking as if he had known Slytherin.

His certainty that Slytherin had not been a Necromancer.

He was a Necromancer . . . but he was also Draco. There was no doubt about that--after watching the boy grow up, he knew Draco almost as well as he knew himself (which was not, necessarily, always saying that much).

Slytherin led undead armies . . . but . . . Draco? raised them?

"Master."

Slytherin was--and still is--a Parseltongue.

Lucifer. Salazar. Sal'.

Draco was seriously listing. "I had forgotten . . . how much spontaneous Necromancy . . . took out of a person."

And as he crumpled, Snape's eyes widened impossibly large, as all the pieces snapped into place.

My son?!
**
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23 June 2003
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lost writer, maggie, Cho Chang, myrhfire, Crydwyn--Thanx.

Saturn's Hikari, LeopardDance, atalante--Yes, Severus came to the masquerade as Lily. I'm afraid that Dumbledore wouldn't let him skip out entirely. :P Heh . . . this will teach me to be deliberately obscure . . . after all, I keep forgetting that not everyone knows as much about the story as I do. -_-;;

Megs--Sorry, I'm afraid there will be no H/D in this fic. It's just not set up correctly for that to even be a possibility--though it is rather fun having everyone else wonder if something's going on between the two of them. ^^ As for the long chapters . . . . Hellfino. They just have this disconcerting habit of . . . happening. Not that I'm complaining. ^_^

Barbara--Yes indeedy, that is Snape. And give the poor guy a break . . . this is Draco speaking--and Draco knows Sev better than most, so I'd say that he was a bit more opaque than that. And given the fact that he was semi-anonymous and suddenly very worried about the kid that he only just recently learned was his son . . .

You got one of the two--yes, Lucia's universe is involved, but no, that's not where Jamie ended up. I hope the miming scene worked out all right. As for Dumbledore . . . *huffs* Honestly. I was going to have him demand explanations like a rational person, but then I actually write him and he suddenly tears himself away, jumping up and down and shrieking Salazar Slytherin! Evil! Possession! Necromancy! Die! *throws hands into the air* Honestly.

darkhaven--Oh, but I love stories that resort Snape!Harry and give him a new name. It's always fun to watch him work things out from that perspective. And, given that in most cases, Harry could very well be a son that Snape had had, and just never been aware of', it can be made to work. But given this particular scenario, as Snape's son could not have been by anyone but Lily due to the little One True Love Only' quirk in the Snape genetics, it just really wouldn't have worked. 'Sides, he's already Slytherin in every way that matters. *pats Jamie on the head proudly*

Cho getting more violent . . . mm. Dunno. It could just be Jamie getting more annoying. :P He seems to be at that stage where he acts deliberately obtuse just out of the joy of doing so--at which point, you're right, he does need someone to kick a bit of sense into him every now and then. ^^ I'm glad you liked the Lucius/Draco meeting; that scene was my baby and I worried about it possibly more than any other scene in the chapter. I really didn't want to get it wrong.

As for the relationships . . . I believe I mentioned that this was my candy story, my chance to do really odd stuff just because I felt like it? I'm endeavoring to make Severus/Lily seem like a normal relationship, in compensation. I admit, at first it was going to be R/Hr, simply because I didn't feel like coming up with anything else, but as I grew to really like Hermione and Ron, I began to feel that that was kinda cutting them a raw deal. So I jumbled things up. Besides . . . I thought it was the perfect time to screw with the concept of a Harry/Ron relationship. *evil grin* Hermione/Katie was a bit less premeditated; it just happened.

A little more panic would have been amusing . . . but Jamie's really not the sort of person to do that, generally. I just can't see him showing up like that, not without having a reason--such as trying to drive home the fear of a name' lesson. 'Specially since I'd think that he'd get really tired of how everyone runs around squawking You-Know-Who', when he, Voldie's #1 Most Wanted, can say the name. Yes, there is a certain amount of environment wrapped up in that question, but still . . .

Lily=Snape. I thought I made that clear enough, but given the number of people that have asked . . . perhaps not. *wide eyes* I knew what I was talking about, so of course everyone should too. As you saw, Jamie is not where Lucia was . . . but I hope the end result is suitably evil despite that. ;)

Hana-chan--Nope, not Cho--Jamie hit that one on the nose when he guessed Hermione. I mean, who else would come as Athena? :P

As for picking up the paper clip . . . he has to have some weaknesses, and when you really think about it, curiosity combined with a fascination with sparkly objects really isn't that bad. Most of the time. Especially since he's usually pretty good at controlling it. As you saw, Jamie is in the past, if not quite as far back as you thought. *mournful look* That would have been neat . . . if I hadn't already planned this part out a long time ago . . . *sighs*

Draco and Sev are . . . coping. o.0 I think. .

xikum--Erm . . . why? Lucius is dedicated to Voldie's cause, not The Heir to Slytherin'. Learning that there was no such beastie and, furthermore, that Slytherin had changed his mind might give him a bit of a pause, but in the end he'd shrug and run back to Voldemort with the news that his son just happened to be the most powerful Necromancer on Earth (not hard, considering the fact that he's the only one) and, by the way, can I borrow some liquid Imperius?

Severus has just figured it out, methinks--and now that he has, I think Draco will be willing to spill the full story once he recovers. Voldemort was holding onto his chair awfully hard . . . and do you really want him wandering into another universe that he might very well be able to take over unopposed? No, it's better that he stay right where he is for now.

*pats self on back* Less than three weeks! I think it's the whole getting cut off from sanity (ie. the internet) for almost the entire time' gig that I went through. *shudders* ^^;;